I, an old friend

As the rose tilts its stem to die,
It does not hide its withered petals.
As the sky nears heavy with rain,
It does loom grey until it settles.
As the sea roughens with great storm,
The water’s tides rise and crash with force
And as the winter wolf hungers,
It does not kill its hunt with remorse.
 

Then why, I with “able body
And overtly prospecting mind”,
Do I acclaim my potential, although
There is shadow all where I had once shined.

http://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/2utd3z/post_grad_95_life/cobtm2t http://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/2uuh40/her_eyes/cobth9q